Left 4 Dead: Undead Dawn
by The Amber Pen
Summary: When an unbridled infection sweeps through Fairfield and beyond, spreading unimpeded, those left behind are tasked with one objective: survive. Can our heroes adapt to the apocalyptic nightmare they find themselves in and escape, or will they be consumed by the swelling sea of ravenous infected?
1. Chapter 1 - The Fall of Fairfield

**"I sat in the dark and thought: There's no big apocalypse. Just an endless procession of little ones." - Neil Gaiman, _Signal to Noise_**

...

* * *

The city of Fairfield once stood proud as a beacon of hope and promise. It was a symbol of human possibilities – a testament to architecture and achievement; a hustling, bustling hub of commerce and brand new opportunities. Yet not even this grand metropolis of glass and steel could withstand the wretched infection. An unbridled chaos held the previously glamorous city tightly in its grip, and crushed it. Fairfield was nothing more than a deathtrap. A pit of death and violence.

Most professionals claimed it was a mutated case of human rabies. No one truly knew how it spread; whether it was airborne or caught through physical contact or even bodily fluids. If everyone was entirely honest, they didn't know if it was bacterial, viral or even fungal. All that people knew was that it _was_ spreading. Fast. Only one in a thousand people were immune to the virus that everyone came to know as the 'Green Flu'.

The Green Flu was far beyond just a case of rabies. It was much, much worse.

Anyone infected with the new virus would lose their higher brain functions and control of their own actions. They would become savage and rampant bloodthirsty animals. At first, the infected host would begin to feel very sick, sometimes to the point of vomiting. After that it wasn't long before the infection progressed with an excessive fever, and the host would begin to shiver uncontrollably. Despite this, they'd begin to feel numb and cold, and their sense of touch would gradually recede. Cuts and scrapes would turn purple, blood would become a lumpy brownish color, and their skin would turn a terrible grey. Once the virus reached full strength, the host would lose complete control over their movements, often following a series of violent spasms and blood forming at the mouth. They became pale, bloody and manic versions of their old selves, slaves to the infection, with only one goal in mind: Spread the virus.

Even the immune were not safe from their relentless attacks. They'd completely lost their sense of self preservation; they were not afraid to rush a well defended barricade or attack a group of armed humans. If hundreds of them died in order to infect one host, or kill an immune, that was a victory for the virus. Following the widespread chaos and confusion of the rapid outbreak, riots erupted on the streets as the infected were quarantined, power lines were severed, and only emergency electrical equipment or anything generator-powered remained active.

There was strength in numbers. And the infected certainly had numbers.

...

Survival was something well known to the old Vietnam war veteran. William "Bill" Overbeck had holed himself up inside a small grocery shop. It took two eventful tours in Vietnam, a handful of medals, a knee full of shrapnel, and an honorable discharge before the unthinkable happened: Bill ran out of wars. But now an army of infected had declared war on humanity. After decades of aimless drifting and dead-end jobs, Bill finally had back the only thing he ever wanted: an enemy to fight. But this was never the enemy he wanted. Human opponents can think rationally, solve problems logically and form plans. If you can understand your enemy, you can defeat them.

But these things – the infected of this forsaken city – had no plans. They had no ideas, no rational thought. Their actions could not be predicted.

Bill sat in the depressing darkness of the barricaded shop, with dim dirty beams of light seeping through the cracks in the boarded up windows. He was slumped against a cold metal chair, puffing on a small cigarette offering a warm glowing light in the dark nothingness. Even in the dark, Bill constantly tinkered with his old rifle, his trusty M16A2, adjusting scopes and magazines, fiddling with stocks and wiping the barrel. He knew that gun better than anything else. At this point, he was merely stripping it down and building it up again. He had to keep his hands busy somehow.

As Bill sat there in the encompassing darkness, he listened intently to his old radio. After a few days' work, he'd managed to tune it to an emergency frequency that seemed to have heavy military usage. The radio's occasional static-pocked broadcasts painted a very bleak picture of the world outside of Bill's shop. The military had sealed off the roads at the city limits. Armed forces were moving from street to street, attempting to annihilate any infected in their way. They were cleansing the streets.

But they were losing numbers quickly. Perhaps the infected were cleansing them.

Without much warning of any kind, husky voices began talking over the radio. The sudden noise shook Bill from a lulling sleep, although he quickly began slipping back into it.

"Raven, this is Bison," said the radio, "You seen Team Rhino?"

"Negative, Bison," came another voice, with a sigh. "Rhino is MIA."

"The whole team?" There was a long silence, punctuated only by static. "Confirmed, Raven. Regroup at sector Charlie Five."

"Roger that," Another burst of static filled the gap. Bill continued puffing heavily on his cigarette. "Uhh, having trouble locating sector Charlie Five."

"Raven, Sector Charlie Five is at the corner of Harkin Street and Fifth. Repeat, Harkin Street and Fifth Avenue."

"Thanks, Bison. Raven out."

Bill awoke from a bored stupor. _Harkin Street,_ he thought. His building was on Harkin Street, and as far as he could remember, Fifth Avenue was only a couple of blocks away. Something snapped within him, and told him that the time for sitting and dwindling food supplies away was over. It was time to move, and what better way to move than with the military.

Bill tossed his cigarette to the ground and stamped the dim glow from existence. He stood up shakily, cracking his back and adjusting his posture. There was no denying it. He was getting old. He scratched at his grey beard and removed his green beret. Wispy grey hairs fell across his face as he wiped away trickles of sweat hiding in his wrinkled forehead. The green army-style jacket that he'd worn those many years ago still fit him nicely. Under this, he wore a simple and now ragged cotton undershirt, stained with blood and sweat. On his legs, he'd opted for a pair of heavy green pants he'd once had specially made, padded and protected with Kevlar. His once-black combat boots were stained permanently brown. He had a dark leather satchel slung around his chest, carrying bullets, cigarettes and his warm and matured half-finished bottle of whiskey.

He coughed hard, dislodging some dark phlegm, and picked up the radio. He realized in that moment he hadn't yet tried to speak with the radio. He shook his head sternly, and cleared his throat.

"This is William Overbeck. I'm a veteran of the Green Beret Special Forces. I'm currently held up in Tom's Grocers near sector Charlie Five, requesting to meet with soldiers in the area, over." There was a short period of silence as Bill wondered whether that had actually worked, before the radio crackled into life.

"This is Raven. This channel is not for civilians."

Bill blinked, almost amused at how flatly he'd been rejected. He wasn't sure if 'Raven' was a unit name or just a ridiculous soldier's codename. He shook his head, and grunted. "I fought in Vietnam. I am armed and awaiting aid. I can fight."

"Vietnam?" chuckled the voice. Bill felt his eyebrows lower, scornfully. "Aren't you too old to be fighting, Overbeck?"

"I'm not too old to fight, son," said Bill, trying his hardest to stifle a cough as he spoke.

"Can't take the risk, Overbeck," said the radio, almost apologetically. "You could be infected."

"I'm as immune as they come, son!" Bill boomed, a pressure rising in his chest. "I'm old, I'm tired and there's infected on the damn streets! The world's gone to shit, if you haven't noticed," he said, raising the radio closer to his lips. "Let. Me. Help." There was a long pause. Bill sighed deeply as all that called back to him was static. Just as he was about to toss the radio to the floor, it crackled back to life.

"Can you confirm your immunity, Overbeck?" said the radio, slowly.

"I've got scratches, bites and all. No symptoms of any kind after three days. I'm immune, son."

After a long pause, the voice said: "We're on our way." His voice was labored and slow, as if he regretted saying it.

"Great," said Bill, with a small triumphant chuckle. "Let me know when you're here."

Bill stretched his legs and cracked his neck. _Some more action,_ he thought. He laughed to himself. _I must be crazy, I'm in no condition to fight._

 _..._

For the first few days, Aldrich College, despite being in the heart of the city, had just about managed to trundle on safely through the chaos that had otherwise consumed Fairfield. After the first city riots, the entire campus had been sealed off, and with some military aid they'd been able to create a refuge for survivors in the area. All it had taken was one infected survivor to bring the entire campus down. That was several days ago. Now, the only survivors left on the overrun campus remained hidden, either shut away in remote classrooms or trapped in small rooms by infected.

Two students, James and Zoey, had stashed themselves away within a ransacked geography room. The room had been stuffed with boxes of various supplies during the brief military occupation, so it was very cramped and tight for space. With the windows boarded up, the room was in perpetual darkness with only a small amount of light punching through. Still, there were no infected in there. And they dared not go into the corridor. Last time they had, they'd almost met their end at the hands of a very angry, infected janitor.

"What's gonna happen, Zoey?" said James, a note of panic cracking in his voice.

"Don't worry," whispered Zoey, gently rubbing his arm. "The military's coming back, and the college will be clear again."

"Are the military even out there?" he croaked, his eyes widening. James was rocking back and forth on the spot, as if he was physically unable to hold back his fear. Zoey wasn't sure what, but something had just set him over the edge. "They're coming?" His voice was crackled and hoarse.

James and Zoey had spent a great deal of their college time holed up watching horror movies. Zoey had always been a bit of a horror movie buff, and had thoroughly enjoyed introducing him to each film individually. Although as she watched him rocking back and forth, his bloodshot eyes darting around the room for the slightest sign of danger, she regretted heightening his sense of fear. Being holed up with him now was actually quite similar to how they'd spent most of their time previously. The main difference being that this time they were living the horror movie. Zoey swallowed, still rubbing his arm, and forced a smile.

"Of course they are," she said, as calmly as she could. James continued rocking back and forth, staring right through her with his reddening eyes. "James, are you okay?"

"No, no I'm not okay!" yelped James, as if in pain. He pushed Zoey away and glared at her, suddenly quite threatening. "I'm freaking out! We're gonna die!"

"It's okay," Zoey stepped forwards and held him in a gentle hug. "We'll be fine. Help is coming."

"No they're not!" he snapped, pushing Zoey away once again.

"Easy now," said Zoey, lowering her voice to a whisper in the hopes that James might follow suit. "You'll attract the infected, we need to be quiet."

"I don't care!" James was now throwing his hands in the air wildly as he spoke, each word louder and more shrill than the last. "We're going to die anyway!"

"Don't say that," said Zoey, tentatively. "We'll make it. We just have to be-"

"No!" he yelled, pushing her chest and forcing her to stumble backwards a few paces. She hadn't even been that close to him this time, and his push was much fiercer. "This is your fault! You and your stupid films!" There was no point trying to calm him down now; Zoey could see that something had pushed him over the line, and it wasn't a line he could come back from. Zoey froze as she scanned his face. Aggression, bloodshot eyes, pale skin. He couldn't be… could he?

"James… Have you…" Zoey paused, watching his reaction closely. "…Have you been bitten?"

"I hate those films! They freak me out!" he screamed, dodging the question entirely. Before she could ask again, he swung his arm around and pounded his fist with an almighty _thwack_ against her chest. Her knees buckled as he pushed her out of the way and clawed at the barricaded door, the only entrance to the room. "I'm getting out of here!"

James managed to burst his way out of the room before Zoey could get back to her feet to hold him back. She was just about to dash out and follow him when she saw him get tackled and mauled by multiple infected at the end of the corridor. They were ravenous.

Zoey took a step back and made sure not to be spotted. The creatures ripped and scraped at his shirt, clawing and gnawing their way into his chest cavity and mashing his lungs to pieces as blood began flowing from every new wound. Zoey watched, frozen with fear, her eyes glued to the shower of blood and intestines. She couldn't bear to look away, yet felt revolted at the sight. James screeched out a horrible and deafening retching sound from the depths of his frothing lungs as his body finally surrendered to the pain.

"Ah…" Zoey clapped her hands to her mouth, desperately holding in a scream. "Oh my God… James…"

 _Close the door, Zoey,_ she thought. _Close the door!_

Slowly - not fully aware of what just happened - she pulled the black door closed as the corpse feast continued. She locked it, thanked every god she could think of that James hadn't taken the key with him, and placed a wooden board against it. The infected might come knocking for seconds.

"Okay," she whispered to herself, clutching her stomach. "I just have to wait. Rescue will come. It has to."

Zoey sank to the ground, her back to the cold and unforgiving concrete wall. She would have been physically sick watching James get ripped apart, but she hadn't eaten in several days. There was simply nothing left inside her. She keeled over, wincing, desperately hungry, and squinted out of the window through a crack in the boards.

Infected roamed the campus freely. The entire city was in anarchy.

Maybe no help was coming after all.

* * *

 **Thanks for reading, team!**

This is just the first chapter of a much longer fan fiction. It works its way towards the whole group (Francis, Louis, Zoey and Bill) coming together, and in all likelihood will run until they make their escape to safety or die trying. Who knows? Oh yeah, I do.

Please let me know what you think, and don't worry, Francis and Louis are yet to come!


	2. Chapter 2 - Welcome to Raven

...

 **"We're living on the brink of the apocalypse, but the world is asleep." - Joel C. Rosenberg**

...

* * *

Bill's eyes narrowed as he watched the sunlight filtering in through the boarded up door. A shadow slid across, before slowly moving back and staying dead center in the doorway. This had happened many times, but it always set Bill's teeth on edge. Infected often stumbled their way up to the boards, curious, as if they knew a survivor lurked within. Bill tightened his grip on the rifle perched in his lap, staring unblinkingly at the silhouette. They never stood there for that long.

And never that quietly.

"Overbeck!" boomed a voice, loud enough to jerk Bill out of his rickety metal chair in alarm. "Are you in there?"

Setting his rifle on his back, Bill reached into his ragged satchel and brandished his warm whiskey, taking a gentle, quiet swig as he considered his response. "Yeah, I'm here," he said, wiping his mouth.

"Well get out here," said the voice, snippily. "We're not waiting around."

Bill produced a half-chuckling, half-coughing sound before depositing his whiskey back in the satchel. He turned himself around, arching and stretching his back as he did so, and began fumbling around in the dim light on the small table beside his chair. After a few clatters and knocks, his fingers wrapped around the cold, rusted crowbar he was grasping for.

Cracking his fingers and praying to God that he wouldn't throw out his back, Bill gave a great swing at the door, lodging the crowbar firmly onto the top board and began yanking with several loud _cracks_ as it came loose. He was quite proud of his still-rippling strength, and managed to make short work of the boards. He chuckled to himself, suddenly feeling very glad that the infected didn't use crowbars.

Once the door had been wrenched clear of boards, he undid the flimsy latch and pushed on the rickety metal and grimy glass door. The thick coat of grime on the glass had been shielding him from more light than he realised, as the room flooded with painfully strong sunlight. Bill squinted, scrunching up his face into a tight ball, as his eyes began to water. It was his first real sunlight in five days, since he'd sealed himself away.

As if suddenly remembering that there were people outside, Bill glanced around, his eyes still narrowed to slits, desperate to regain his clear sight. Everything still quite blurry and out of focus, Bill could make out about fifteen soldiers or so surrounding him. Some, it seemed, were pointing guns.

"Pfff," he scoffed, holding his hand against his forehead to block out the sun. "Hold your fire."

"So," said a coarse voice, cooing. "Overbeck. Lived through Vietnam to fight another day, eh?"

Bill turned to face the speaking soldier. He recognised the voice as the man he'd spoken to earlier. "Sure," said Bill, with a shrug. "I'm just keeping my shit together."

"Good," the man said, his features now coming into focus. He was a tall and rather gaunt looking man, his rough stubbly black beard coating his wide jaw and tickling his strangely sharp cheek bones. He watched Bill with narrowed eyes, scanning him up and down. "Put your guns down, everyone."

There was a quiet murmur amongst the group as they lowered their weapons. Bill gave the man a small, appreciative nod before glancing around, now able to make out a lot more of what he was looking at. The soldiers looked nothing like the image Bill had in his head. He would have sooner believed that they were a band of third-world rebels than a division of the United States army.

Their uniforms were scruffy and ripped, and that was only for the soldiers that were actually _wearing_ uniforms. Some of them had been stripped down to undershirts, or threadbare overalls, others still wearing the ragged remains of their fatigues on their shoulders. A couple of them seemed to be wearing nothing that would indicate that they were soldiers, other than a few scraps of woodland-patterned clothing. A pattern which, had Bill spared a moment to think about it, would've confused him greatly about its usage in a city.

"Ames," said the gaunt man, nodding at a soldier across from him. "Check him for bites."

A large man with coffee skin and a neck as thick as a barrel lumbered his way towards Bill cautiously. Sharing an understanding moment of eye contact, Bill rolled up his left sleeve and held out his arm. A shining, blisteringly red semi-circular scar occupied most of the space on his forearm. It bore the unmistakable pock-marked pattern of human teeth.

"Day two, maybe three," said Bill, gesturing with his arm and shrugging. Ames held Bill's arm a few inches from his face as he leaned in to examine it. After a few seconds, during which Bill grew increasingly irritated as Ames' breath tickled his scar, Ames let go of his arm and lumbered back to where he was before.

"It's fine," said Ames, directly to the gaunt soldier. "It's old."

"Great," said the gaunt man, now turning his attention fully to Bill. "We're not hanging around here for much longer, or we'll become a target. Listen," he said, taking a few steps towards Bill as he rolled his sleeve back into place. "I'm Captain Monroe. I can't _officially_ draft civilians in to help. So," he said, with a quick glance around the group. "If for any reason anyone asks, you're Sergeant Gary Davis. We lost him to a horde a few blocks back." As Monroe said this, he handed him a small hand-held radio and a set of cold metal dog tags, presumably Davis's.

"Can't draft civilians," said Bill, with a snort, stuffing the dog tags in his jacket pocket and briefly turning over the radio in his hands. "That's horseshit, but all right."

The city block around him was completely unrecognizable. Most of the road was obstructed with mounds of rubble and debris that once composed the towering buildings above. Every now and then, the city silence was peppered with distant gunshots and the occasional scream. The air was thick with the smell of smoke and what smelt like an unstomachable mix of gunpowder and feces. _Can't draft civilians_ , Bill laughed to himself. _As if they hadn't realized the world had already gone to hell in a hand basket._

"We agree," said Monroe, darkly. He pulled out a small radio and spoke into it. "This is Raven. No sign of Overbeck, continuing to Charlie Five." Monroe stowed the radio and turned back to Bill. "Anyway, I see you're armed, I'm trusting you not to discharge that weapon unless necessary, yes?"

"Yeah, yeah," said Bill, waving his hand around as if swiping away his comment. "I'm with you."

"Good, let's get moving." Captain Monroe gave a vague hand gesture and wheeled around, marching down the street, a heavy rifle clutched snuggly in his arms. "Oh, and," he added, craning his neck around, but not stopping. Bill was following along with the other soldiers, reaching into his satchel and producing a cigarette and his lighter. "Welcome to Raven Team."

...

"So, it's Bill, right?" said a ragged soldier, striding up to keep pace with Bill.

Bill, who'd been fumbling with his cigarette lighter, grunted a quick "yeah," before managing to light it. He was glad no one had anything to say about him smoking, supposing that they at least had the common sense to know that the infected wouldn't be able to correlate cigarette smoke and survivors.

They'd just met up with Bison Team a few blocks down from Tom's Grocers, but other than that brief disruption, they'd just been marching for a few minutes through the gruesome husk of Fairfield. The streets were littered not only with upturned cars, failed barricades and crumbling debris, but with dozens and dozens of rotting corpses. Bill narrowed his eyes as they marched past suspiciously clean looking corpses, lined up against a wall on the other side of the street. One of them was no more than a meter tall. And they certainly didn't look infected. Grimacing, he shook the thought from his mind.

At the front of the marching unit, soldiers were occasionally adding to the body count. There weren't many infected in the street - it looked as though a unit had been through and cleared it out recently - but there were enough in their way that the soldiers at the front of the unit were on high alert.

"Bill," said the same ragged soldier, still keeping pace with him. "What were you in 'Nam? Screaming Eagles?"

"More like Puking Pigeons," said Bill, through a cough of cigarette smoke. "I wasn't part of anything you'd have ever heard of, kid."

"Well it's good to have you here, sir," he said, his voice soaked with childish admiration.

"What's Raven Team, anyway?" said Bill, reticent. "That can't be the official name."

"It's not a real unit, sir," said the soldier, nodding. "It's just been formed."

"Not a real unit?" Bill echoed incredulously. "They're not even _bothering_ to send in _real_ units?"

The solider flushed white. "Not that, sir, it's-"

Bill waved his arm around, bristling. "Cut the _sir_ horseshit."

"Right, sorry," said the soldier, stopping himself abruptly as if struggling not to slap 'sir' on the end. "We're Fairfield's last line of defence. We're an immune unit, it's a new thing."

"Because they're afraid of us," said another soldier, this time on Bill's left, and slightly less raggedy than the other one. "They think we're carriers. They're not deploying any 'infectables' to Fairfield any more," he said, watching Bill closely. He paused, before adding, "Hey, can I have one?"

Bill craned his neck to look at him. With a grunt and a shrug, he pulled out the crumpled cigarette packet and handed over a cigarette and his silvery lighter. "Help yourself."

"So yeah," said the soldier, mumbling with the cigarette in his mouth as he lit it. "There's only a few units left operating in Fairfield, all immune. You ask me, they're trying to get rid of us."

"Jack, come on," said the other soldier, with an irritated tone, as if they'd had this exact conversation before. "They just don't want to send in people more vulnerable than us."

"Fellas," said Bill, attempting to cut off an argument before it surfaced and taking back his lighter. "What's the job here? Where're we going?"

"Aldrich College," said Jack, his face in a state of distinct pleasure as he exhaled the wisps of creamy smoke. "We go get that back, get it back up and running as a command center, and we can work on cleaning out the city from there. Quarantine's still up and running around the city outskirts, far as I know, although the infection's slipped through." Jack's eyes narrowed and turned his gaze to Captain Monroe at the front of the marching unit. "He thinks we'll do it," he said, gesturing with his cigarette-laden hand at the captain. "The last units in Fairfield are converging on Aldrich right now."

"Raven, Bison, Rhino and Eagle," jeered a third soldier, in a mockingly patriotic tone, his right hand held against his chest.

"Actually no," said Jack. "Rhino's MIA, remember? And who knows if Eagle'll show up."

"If only CEDA had just put us in charge."

Jack shrugged. "CEDA did what it could to..."

Bill stopped listening at that point, a few moments or so after he'd stopped caring. If taking Aldrich College from the infected was the goal, then that was all he needed to know.

If his memory of Fairfield served him well enough, they weren't far from Aldrich at all. As the soldiers continued to bicker around him, Bill flicked his dying cigarette out and popped his satchel open, plucking out his whiskey and taking a generous slug. Then he shoved another cigarette into his mouth. _Nobody lives forever._

"...Then they blow the shit out of Fairfield."

Bill stirred out of his self-imposed lull. "What?"

The soldier who'd spoken glanced back at Bill. "They're bombing Fairfield if we fail," he shrugged, as if it wasn't a big deal. " _When_ we fail."

...

After what seemed like an eternity of marching, they finally reached the College. The soldiers milled in and gathered around in a tight huddle in an alley just off the street, just outside large set of metal doors. Captain Monroe barked some orders that Bill didn't quite catch, and half of the unit marched back towards the street and around the corner, presumably to a different entrance around the other side. Bill supposed that they were the Bison Team soldiers they'd rendezvoused with earlier; he hadn't really paid attention when they joined.

"Let's get this done," said Monroe, calling loudly. He tugged out his radio. "Command, this is Raven. Initiating Operation Aldrich."

Without much warning, Monroe stowed his radio and gave a strange hand gesture, which apparently meant something to the rest of Raven Team, as they all assumed positions around the entrance. Bill lined up clumsily near a cluster of soldiers, but it didn't seem to matter too much.

With another flick of his hand, a gruff-looking soldier slammed on the door handle with the butt of his rifle, and it popped off cleanly, the door swinging open. There was a sudden burst and crackle of activity in everyone's radio as soldiers began chiming in. A strange burst of energy began stirring in the pit of Bill's stomach. Something which, quite frankly, he couldn't remember feeling since his time in the service.

" _Eagle to all teams, we're en route with two birds in the sky. ETA two minutes, out."_

Before Bill could complete his trail of thought, the entire team began pouring in through the doorway, the clattering of footsteps and the blasting of gunshots spilling back out into the alley. He savored the taste of adrenaline in his mouth as he tightened his grip on his rifle, and followed the last soldier through the doorway.

" _Bison Four here, we're going to try and get the power back online."_

They were in an open corridor, which was already laden with many infected bodies, and only a few soldiers at the front were still firing. Although it had more of a classroom feel, the corridor was scattered with medical gurneys and heavy-looking metal boxes marked with various military and government seals. The corridor opened up at the other end into what looked like some kind of lobby area.

" _Raven, check your corners, encountering heavy resistance here."_

As Bill glanced around, he noticed the plaques by the doors along the corridor. _Geography A, Lecture Hall B, Study Hall 5D, Physics C._ They seemed like a rather odd mix of classrooms, but Bill was satisfied that he had identified them as such - classrooms. He vaguely remembered one of the soldiers describing the college as having a large campus with teaching blocks surrounding a central courtyard.

"Reynolds, Paton, Bains, Davis," called the captain as the gunfire died down. "Search this corridor. The rest of you, with me."

Bill narrowed his eyes, trying to figure out what he was supposed to do, before realizing that _he_ was Davis. The other three, Paton, Bains and Reynolds, had already split off and started choosing separate rooms to investigate. Nodding to himself and moving forwards, his cigarette still hanging on the corner of his mouth, Bill headed for the door marked _Geography A_.

" _This is Bison Two, generator's been sabotaged. Aborting power restoration for now."_

As he attempted to open the door, he struggled with the handle, tugging and pushing to try and unjam it. He stepped back, prayed to God that he wasn't about to misalign his spine, and forced an almighty slam with the butt of his rifle at the door. He succeeded to crack through the flimsy wooden door after a few smashes, and managed to reach in and push away whatever was blocking the door from the inside.

" _Eagle to all teams, we're coming in overhead. Dropping through to the central courtyard."_

Bill shoved the door open and burst through, quickly raising his rifle, squinting and sweating, eager for his first combat in a while. But there were no infected. In fact, the room consisted of nothing more than piles of storage boxes and hastily boarded up windows.

He grumbled to himself and puffed on his dying cigarette. As he was about to return to the corridor, a small female voice squeaked below him.

"Don't shoot!" she said weakly, her voice trembling. Her hands were held clearly over her head. "I'm not infected!"

He inched closer to her, still aiming his gun. He stepped around her slowly and crouched, wincing slightly as the all too familiarly sharp pain in his bad knee resurfaced. The woman was breathing heavily, and she couldn't have been much older than twenty. She wore a rather faded red jacket and slightly ripped jeans. Her once-white runners were now a bleak grey. She had straight, dark brown hair tied back in a ponytail.

"You okay, kid?" said Bill, low enough to be a whisper but gravelly enough to be intimidating.

She laid still on the ground but raised her head slightly to glance at Bill. Her bloodshot green eyes were filled with what Bill registered as a mix of relief mingled with fear.

Her voice was hoarse and feeble. "I'm… okay."

Bill paused as he remembered what Monroe had said to him. _Can't draft civilians_. His mind flashed forwards to what he'd seen of the uninfected individuals, who'd been lined up and executed on the street. And Monroe had simply reported in that they hadn't been able to find Bill. _They don't kill survivors, do they?_ _Am I supposed to...?_ Bill physically shook his head, as if to shake the thought loose. If he was expected to kill survivors, someone would have told him.

And if he was wrong about that, this was no longer a world he wanted to live in.

"Don't worry, I'm here to get you to safety," he said, and held out his hand, still clutching his rifle with the other. "No need to lie down anymore, kid, come on." The woman hesitated, before gingerly grabbing his hand and pulling herself to her feet, woozily.

"Oh," she said, stumbling slightly as she let go of Bill's hand and clutched her head. She fluttered her eyelids, squinting around groggily as if she'd just woken up. "I feel ill."

"You probably need some food in you," he said, gently grabbing her shoulder to hold her steady. "But right now I need you to focus."

" _This is Bison Team, we've got survivors in this sector. Stay sharp."_

The thought that this woman was destined to be executed re-entered Bill's mind. He considered for a moment asking over the radio, but realized that if he did so and they wanted survivors to be executed, that would seal this young woman's fate. With a stern grimace, he reached into his satchel and brandished an M1911 pistol. He held it out for her to take. _At least this way she can defend herself, be it against infected or otherwise._

"Name's Bill," he grunted, now paranoid and glancing over his shoulder at the doorway for lurking soldiers. "Can you shoot?"

"I can shoot," said the woman, nodding and slowly taking the pistol from him. She glanced at the pistol as she took it, then smiled at him feebly, her face drained of any color it may have once possessed. "Thanks Bill. I'm Zoey."

* * *

Thanks for making it to Chapter 2, team! I'm aiming to keep these chapters relatively short, around the 3,000 - 2,000 word mark. Looks like we've _already_ overshot the limit and it's only Chapter Two... whoops!

Please let me know what you think, and thanks again for reading. :)

 **Side Note:** Francis and Louis are still coming, we're just establishing the meeting between Bill and Zoey first.


	3. Chapter 3 - Aldrich College

**"The end of the human race is nothing special. It's just part of an endless life cycle." - Toba Beta**

...

* * *

With a lit cigarette still clinging to the corner of his mouth, Bill pressed his back up flat against the bare concrete wall. He swivelled his hand in a subtle circular pattern, gesturing for Zoey to join him up against the wall. After a few moments of hunger-induced lethargy, Zoey gleaned his meaning and moved into a crouched position beside him. He glanced down at her, the minute tightening of his eyes asking the question: "You ready?" Zoey returned an understanding nod, and with that, Bill turned away from her, sliding along the wall half a step away to peer into the dark hallway.

Although the air was still thick with the smell of rotten flesh, and the sounds of distant gunfire peppered the air, the hallway was otherwise clear. Tightening his grip on the rifle, Bill crept forwards and stepped as softly as he could through the doorway. Taking great pains to silently avoid the debris and presumably-slippery viscera that coated the floor, Bill began making his way down the corridor. _If they want to kill the girl,_ he thought. _Then at least I'll die with a conscience._

Zoey followed him out gingerly, one hand held shakily on her pistol, the other resting against the door frame for support. She stumbled forwards, doing her best to emulate Bill's silent movements. In her bleary-eyed, fuzzy state, Zoey had completely forgotten that they were slowly shuffling their way down the hallway towards James' mangled body. Spotting his putrid corpse at the end of the hallway sent a violent shiver of nausea through the pit of her gut, before she was forced to wrench herself sideways and start dry-heaving to the side. She arched against the wall, her pistol-laden hand up flat against it, her other arm clutching her ribboning stomach. She would have been sick, if she'd had anything left inside.

As Bill spun around to keep her quiet, he spotted one of the soldiers appearing from a classroom behind her. Glancing over at them both, he raised his weapon at Zoey.

"Hold it," he said, making sure to move his rifle noisily. "Put the weapon down. Identify yourself."

"Calm down," said Bill, trying to maintain an authoritative calmness in his voice. He could feel his hands tightening around his rifle. "She's with me, I found her in there." He tilted his head and gestured towards the classroom.

"She's sick," said the soldier, not lowering his gun. "She could be infected."

Having heard the conversation, the other two soldiers in the area emerged from their respective classrooms, also pointing their guns at Zoey.

"She's not sick," said Bill, almost grumpily. "We're surrounded by shit, blood and guts here, kid. You think that wouldn't make most people puke?"

"We should check her for bites," said a soldier from the other side of the corridor.

"I'm not bitten," said Zoey, now pulling herself upright and away from the wall. "You can check me yourself." Bill was glad to see she had enough sense to not start waving her pistol around at them.

After a brief moment of silence, the soldier behind Zoey gave a faint nod, and gently lowered his rifle as he walked towards her. Just as he was about to reach for her sleeve, there was a deafening explosion of noise coming from the end of the hallway; a cocktail of gunfire, screaming and outright panic. Everyone's radios buzzed into life at once with yet another volley of screaming and indiscernible chaos.

Realising that something had gone horribly wrong, the three soldiers immediately abandoned Zoey and Bill, dashing off towards the noise.

"Kid, get back in that room," said Bill, grabbing her gruffly by the shoulder and pushing it towards the room.

"I can't go back in there, not again, what if you-"

"I'm coming back," said Bill, cutting her off and now actively moving her into the room. "But you've gotta stay put. I promise you, kid, I'm coming back."

With that, Bill closed the door behind her. With a quick swig from his trusty flask, he turned and darted off down the corridor in pursuit of the other soldiers. Jogging unevenly and with raspy, unsatisfying breaths, Bill had rounded the corner and came to a halt at the end of the next hallway. One of the soldiers stood slouched up against the wall by a doorway, panting violently.

The screaming, the gunfire, everything... it had all stopped. The only thing Bill could hear now, over the sound of the soldier's heavy gasps, was the soft sound of mournful sobbing. A woman's sobbing. _Have they lost a fight to some survivors?_ Bill thought.

Tightening his aching fingers on his rifle's grip, Bill gently crept towards the doorway and pressed himself against the wall on the other side of the doorway.

"What happened?" said Bill, keeping his voice low, in case there were hostile survivors inside the room.

"M-monster... some kind of demon girl," said the soldier, still wheezing. His fingers were wrapped around his shotgun tightly enough to snap it in half. "Killed the captain."

"Christ," said Bill, rubbing his forehead with the back of his closed fist. "Well what is it? Just an infected girl?"

"Something... different," said the soldier, his breath starting to stabilise. "It was just sitting there... crying. Crying, and... surrounded by the captain and the others. We thought they'd died defending her." The soldier straightened up slightly, he looked like he was trying to regain composure to retell the story. "But when Reynolds used his flashlight to check on the captain, the thing just went ballistic." The soldier's eyes were widening, as if witnessing it all over again. "Claws as long as my fucking arm. Ripped Reynolds and Paton to shreds! I barely made it out of the room. Fuck me," said the soldier, his composure gone once again. "We're all that's left of Raven."

Stifling a tickling cough, Bill eased his shoulder against the slightly open door, undeterred by the boy's ongoing ramblings. As the door slowly creaked open, the situation inside became very clear. There, crouched in a ball in the centre of the room, surrounded by a pool of fresh blood and viscera, was a small, pale girl. Her wails echoed hauntingly around the room, bouncing from the fresh corpses to the rotting masses of unidentifiable flesh.

Despite an encroaching fear swelling up inside his chest, Bill found himself undeniably curious about it. Attempting to keep his movements quiet, Bill lightly ran his fingers along the edge of his rifle down towards the flashlight.

He paused, then switched it on.

Instantly, the thing craned her neck to stare at him; her pale, dead eyes locked on his, her gentle sobbing growing into an increasingly furious growl. Without a moment's hesitation, Bill flicked the light off again, and found himself backing away slightly back towards the doorway. This seemed to appease the creature, and it soon went back to its position on the ground, the aggressive growls once again replaced by a series of eery, retching sobs.

As quietly as possible, Bill crept back out into the hallway, and pulled the door closed. With a sigh of relief, he turned away and leaned against the door, pausing for thought. Had he not already been told what'd happened in that room, he thought for certain that he would've either attacked the creature, or attempted to help it. It would've ripped him to pieces. _Is the infection really that goddamned evil? Could it be that cunning?_ If the infection was starting to gain some kind of intelligence, it didn't bear thinking about. There was no doubt, though. That _was_ an infected girl. And it _was_ a trap.

"They're changing," croaked the soldier, still clutching his shotgun like his life depended on it. Perhaps it did.

Bill grunted a murmur of agreement, and wasted no time in pulling the whiskey from his satchel. With a hearty swig, and the warm embrace of alcohol swimming through his body, Bill extended his arm out to the soldier, offering him a drink.

"Bill," he said, shaking the bottle at him.

The soldier watched him uncertainly, almost as if he'd been shaken enough to believe _anyone_ could secretly be an infected. Finally, he said, "Jason," and took the bottle.

As Jason helped himself to a fairly generous dosage of warm whiskey, Bill turned around to face the door again. He reached a hand into his satchel and pulled out a marker pen. It wasn't exactly ideal, but it was the best he had. He took a step closer to the door and began scrawling.

"What do we do with survivors, kid?" he said, running the pen forwards and backwards on the door, trying to thicken the marker strokes.

"What?" said Jason, clearly far too distracted by the last of Bill's whiskey.

"Survivors, Jason. What do we do with them?"

"We... we take them to the courtyard," he said, as if this was blatantly obvious. "Eagle's coming in with choppers, we're supposed to get them out."

A great weight lifted off Bill's chest. He stood back from the door, smiling not at what he'd written, but what he'd heard. In large capital letters read the words:

 **DO NOT OPEN**

He grunted, fairly confident that it wasn't going to help anyone anyway, and put the marker back in his satchel.

"Good. Well, there's a survivor back there. We better get to the courtyard, son," he said, taking the bottle back from Jason, who seemed to be a little more at ease. "Especially if Raven lives and dies with us."

...

Bill pushed the door to the classroom open, without much thought for being quiet. He was fairly confident that the area had been cleared out. On the other side of the door, he was greeted by the barrel of his pistol, being shakily pointed at him by a very pale-looking Zoey.

"Kid we need to get you outta here," said Bill, planting a hand on her shoulder as she lowered the pistol. "Ready to go?"

She nodded, offering a weak smile to show her gratitude for him returning. Zoey followed Bill as he pivoted around and headed back into the hallway. Jason, who'd been waiting there, frowned at her.

"Is that, are you," he stumbled, seemingly unsure as to what he wanted to say. "Is that it? Are you it? No one else?"

Zoey nodded her head, solemnly. "Just me," she said.

"Right," said Jason, trying not to sound too disheartened. "Let's get to the courtyard."

...

Leading a band of three down a darkened corridor strewn with military, civilian and infected corpses alike wasn't exactly what Bill had in mind when he'd decided to up and move with the military, but it was the hand he'd been dealt. And Bill had learned long ago not to get hung up on how things could've been different. This was how it was, and the only thing he could ever do was deal with what's in front of him.

With Bill at the front and Jason bringing up the rear, the three made slow, quiet and steady progress towards an emergency exit to the courtyard. Thankfully, the corridors had mostly been cleared out. Only one infected had been in their way, and Bill had quite decisively taken it down with a brute force slap to the back of its head with the butt of his rifle. When they reached the emergency exit, Bill glanced back at the others, gave a reassuring nod, and gently pressed the emergency exit open.

The courtyard told a completely different story to that of Raven's. It opened up as a large hexagonal space, enclosed on all sides by the campus' buildings. There were sections of grass, and even one sad-looking tree, but for the most part the courtyard was paved. It wasn't exactly a pretty sight in its current state, but Bill could imagine that it was probably quite a nice place before the walking corpses had waltzed onto the scene.

A military helicopter hung in the sky, slowly circling the area, whilst the other had touched down in the centre of the courtyard. Soldiers from Bison Team were milling about the area, dragging freshly eliminated infected corpses out of the way, and escorting small groups of survivors to the grounded helicopter. Bill even spotted a pair of snipers patrolling the rooftop on the other side.

"Jesus," called a soldier, jogging his way over towards Bill. "Where are the others? Where's Raven?"

Bill gave a disconcerting chuckle. "We're it, kid. We _are_ Raven."

The man's face immediately went pale, before hardening into a rather odd mild green color.

 _"Bison Five here, think I've found the problem,"_ said Bill's radio. _"Restoring power."_

"Let's just get the kid on the chopper," he said, turning around and gesturing towards Zoey. "And for Christ's sake, get her something to eat."

Before the soldier could say anything, before Jason could ask him how Bison Team had fared, before Zoey could thank Bill one last time, the entire courtyard erupted into a blazing, piercing, ear-shattering whine. An alarm was blaring all across the campus. Even in the open air of the courtyard, the sound was shrill enough to go right through Bill, piercing him down to his bones.

But there was something much, much worse, hidden amongst the noise. Intermingled with the shrill ringing of the unyielding alarm, was the unmistakable scream of angry infected.

And they sounded hungry.

All in the same moment, a wall exploded on the other side of the courtyard. There, in the hole of the wall that once was, stood the most horrifyingly swollen creature. It was a man of some kind, his muscles engorged to impossible proportions, his arms wider than ancient tree trunks, his fists the size of small tables, and - _had he punched through the goddamned wall?!_

It didn't matter. All that mattered was that he was there.

And he was definitely angry.

* * *

 **Thanks for reading!**

So the progress on this work has been incredibly slow, and for that I sincerely apologize. But, as with all my stories, if I decide to give up on one, I won't let it die silently - you'll know if it's been left for dead!

I hope you enjoyed it, we're going to take on Zoey's perspective in the next chapter! Please let me know what you think with a review, good or bad, and I'll see you for the next chapter. Have an awesome day, killer.


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